


The Hell of it All

by wreathed



Series: Officer Class [4]
Category: British Comedy RPF, Nathan Barley (TV) RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Comeplay, Gross, Humiliation, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sadism, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 12:17:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19228975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/pseuds/wreathed
Summary: Charlie takes some criticism. Amongst other things.





	The Hell of it All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trash_bat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_bat/gifts).



Last month, Charlie had been up against everything: fighting against logistical challenges to the script, exhausted by agreeing to do too many things, haunted-dark circles under his eyes, and that’s when he'd turned up as usual, croaked a sore-throated _hello_ and Chris had taken one look at him and hadn't make him strive for anything, just got him sitting on the sofa, flipped his legs up and apart, yanked away the necessary clothes and rimmed him messily until he was only capable of making embarrassingly incoherent noises he hoped weren't being taped. Chris’s two big, slick fingers pushed into him relatively easily after that, then Chris’s other hand wrapped tightly around his cock until Charlie came hard against his own stomach. It wouldn’t have been accurate to say they’d kissed as it had happened, but, as Charlie had grunted out a sticky release, Chris had pitched forward and sunk his teeth hard into Charlie’s bottom lip.

*

Today, he’s settling into giving a languid suckjob where he’s controlling the pace, t-shirt off to save ruining it, jeans unzipped, his erection ignored and tight and hot inside in his underwear; kneeling in front of the sofa, Chris sitting opposite him with his legs just wide apart enough. It might be one of Charlie's favourite places in the entire world to be (best not to think about that too much).

Chris has asked him, in a measured, reasonable tone, to keep looking up at him the whole time, and Charlie does his best to do so as he slowly goes down as far as he can manage. Sometimes Chris is working, absentmindedly writing longhand on a legal pad, and that’s when he doesn’t always pay mind to when Charlie splutters or shuts his eyes to lose himself in the moment and save the crick forming in his neck. But when he’s got Chris’s full attention, Chris _always_ notices and gives him a friendly sharp little smack on his cheek to bring him back, causing a muffled moan from Charlie as he takes it and sharply reopens his eyes straight afterwards.

It’s comfortable, comforting bliss, right up until Chris slides on his reading glasses and reaches forward to pick up a book from the edge of the coffee table. Now when Charlie’s looking up he’s looking up at a cover with his own gurning face, the eventual selected result of an enjoyable but uncomfortable day with the publisher’s chosen photographer. Chris sighs as he unhurriedly flicks to one of the index tabs stuck between the pages, and Charlie finds himself unmoving from sharp, anticipatory self-consciousness.

He pulls off, gasping, only for Chris – he can’t really see Chris’s face anymore – to get one hand around the back of his skull and push Charlie’s mouth back down.

“ _Oh, you. Pretty, silly you_ ,” Chris reads out loud in a sneery sort of voice featuring a recognisable edge of an impression of Charlie’s typical intonation, and Charlie gives a pathetic whine, his face flushed hot, staying still with his mouth full. “ _We've got you brainwashed. See, that's what our incessant, ruinous swaggering was all about: pretending to be more complex and dangerous than we actually are. In truth your suspicions are correct: we're very, very simple. We're lazy and we like blowjobs. That's all there is to us. Literally: that's it._ ”

Chris tosses the book back onto the table, looking down at Charlie incredulously, and Charlie is made aware of how he’ll look to Chris in this moment: embarrassed, lips slick and puffy, looking up from between Chris’s thighs.

Then Chris’s hand is cradling the back of his head again, and he’s being pulled off by his hair with a loud messy sound that, from where he is, seems impossibly loud.

“Do you think that’s _funny_?” Chris asks him, displeased, as Charlie catches his breath and moans in reaction. “Do you think it’s true?”

“It’s just a column,” Charlie mutters, looking away towards the floor. “Met that deadline with seconds to spare, as fucking per.”

“Are you sure it’s not just you?” Chris says. “Rather than _all men_? I find that disappointingly reductive. Anyone reading this could tell what it is you like. Do you want everyone to know how eager you are to get throated? Hoping somebody will pop round and oblige you if you telegraph it enough to the world?”

Charlie looks up at Chris and swallows tightly. “Of course not," he manages to say, but Chris only stares back at him silently and disparagingly. Charlie swallows hard again, and he sees Chris’s eyes flick to the bob of his throat.

“Here, I found another interesting one,” Chris says, switching back to staring Charlie right in the eye.

“Please,” says Charlie, feeling small and stupid, hyperaware of the sweat prickling on the back of his neck and under his arms, of his leaking dick which in no way wants to calm down in the face of what Chris is saying. But Chris shushes him instead, giving the first two fingers of his left hand for Charlie to suck, which Charlie does dutifully. At least that might succeed in shutting himself up.

Then a different book, different stupid picture, an older one, is in Charlie’s sightline. Chris takes away his fingers and Charlie waits, trying to ignore the aches in his body, as he hears the sound of Chris taking a tissue out of the box on the table and wiping his hand clean of Charlie’s spit before Chris carefully turns to a marked-up page and ostentatiously clears his throat.

“ _In summary: a mere sore throat is proof enough that there is no God - or that if there is, he doesn't give a toss about human suffering._ ” Chris gives an indulgent laugh at that (Charlie’s face _burns_ ), and then there’s a large, gentle, encouraging hand on Charlie’s cheek, a thumb at the edge of his mouth. Charlie takes Chris’s cock in again, swallowing hard around it this time, which actually manages to make Chris gasp. The book in his hand twitches. Briefly triumphant, the cogs in Charlie’s preoccupied brain start to turn slowly, embarrassment rising even further in him as he thinks he now recalls the sentences that come next.

“ _In which case why bother worshipping him?_ ” Chris reads out, as if reporting a mildly interesting fact. “ _That's like fellating someone who intermittently stubs fags out on your head for no good reason. And we all know how unsatisfying that can be._ ”

Charlie’s _eyeballs_ must be sweating, he thinks hysterically. He makes some sort of awful, needy sound, then starts enthusiastically taking in Chris’s cock, feeling his eyes roll back in his head as it hits the back of his mouth. Maybe it’ll end, maybe he’ll even get off himself, if he can get Chris coming hard down his throat.

He hears Chris swear fricatively from somewhere behind the cover. Chris carelessly drops the book back on the table. Charlie presses his own hand over his damp underwear and starts to rub his palm against his straining erection while he bounces his mouth up and down Chris’s dick, rocking himself back and forward for leverage. For a few exquisite moments, Chris lets him, until Chris kicks Charlie’s arm away from himself, hard, and Charlie chokes from the pain, sliding off Chris’s cock.

“You seem enthusiastic about that,” Chris says cruelly, looking down at Charlie, wild behind the eyes. “Is it something you want us to try? We’d have to be up on the roof, if I was chain-smoking. Someone might overhear how excited you get.”

Charlie’s panting like he’s run five miles. Chris’s eyes flash as he gasps out an excited laugh.

“You _are_ simple, Charlie,” Chris says fondly, a hand back in his hair. “Straightforward. But you’re hardly lazy. The things you’ve done for me even for the _future promise_ of reward. And your writing’s good. Throwaway at times, but that’s the nature of a newspaper. There’s no need to be embarrassed.”

Charlie, focused only on Chris’s face and Chris's spit-slick cock, lunges forward again, desperate to fill his mouth back up, but Chris stops him with only a thumb over Charlie's lips, pushing him back.

“One more,” Chris says, clear and demanding and kind. “One more and then you’ll get it.”

Unthinkingly, Charlie whines in frustration against Chris’s warm thumb and watches Chris pick the book back up and turn to yet another index-tabbed page. He tries to press his tongue against Chris's thumb to take it in his mouth, only for Chris to tut and take that hand away, briefly wiping it clean again. Charlie, heat high on the back of his neck and still so red in the face, waits dead still.

“ _It must be great being a rock star_ ,” Chris reads like he’s a long-suffering literature critic, and Charlie starts laughing, because he remembers this and because he can’t take anything he writes entirely seriously. Chris emphatically ignores him.

“ _Never mind the money and the drugs, what about all the blowjobs? Fans queue up, open-mouthed, shuffling slowly forward on their knees, dumbly pointing at their own lips and pleading with their eyes, like they've been poisoned and you're full of antidote._ ”

Chris puts the book back down on the table and looks down at Charlie over the top of his glasses. “I suppose you’re laughing because you’re aware of how painfully obvious you’re being,” Chris says, and Charlie gives a sharp breath out like he’s been kicked again. “I’m not sure how well a pointedly unsophisticated puerile fantasy works as an opener, but it’s hardly difficult for me to imagine you struck dumb by dick, on your knees.”

“Well, I… I, you know. I don’t think that’s…” Charlie tries, grimacing at his dropped sentences, aware anything he could say will be undercut by him right this second being down on the carpet and paper-thin close to begging. “You hired me _because_ I was puerile,” he manages to protest. “That’s what you wanted.”

“I hired you because you were funny,” Chris tells him.

“Any other reason?” Charlie asks, looking up.

“And because I thought you would,” Chris says, swallowing in the middle of the sentence. “Take direction well.”

“Stop fucking about and direct me then,” Charlie says, feeling so strung-out he could scream. “Like you promised.”

Slow as he likes, Chris looks at him with an intense, withering scrutiny, then removes his glasses and rubs at the inner corners of his eyes before Charlie, nerves singing, too overinvested, gets to watch Chris grasp his own dick firmly by the base.

“Stay still, you greedy thing,” Chris tells him as Charlie starts to open his mouth, ready for it, and so Charlie stays like that, lips parted. Chris feeds the head of his cock past Charlie’s lax lips and Charlie stays still but he also moans, deep so it will feel good for Chris, as Chris gets his other hand against the back of Charlie’s head so he can’t move.

Chris takes his cock away again, one thin string of spit from Charlie coming with it, and Charlie watches dizzily as Chris keeps a firm grip on himself and slaps Charlie’s parted, damp lips a few times with the underside of his dick. It makes Charlie’s mouth tingle and he has to shut his eyes for a moment against how degraded it makes him feel. And how desperate it makes him for _more_. He sticks his tongue out, to try and take Chris in, but then Chris’s dick hits him like that too, softer and wetter and not quite enough, until Chris at last drives his cock in properly. Eager for it, Charlie sinks right onto it, getting as close to the base as he can. There’s a good three inches he can’t manage.

Like this, Chris is doing most of the work: Charlie, held between Chris’s cock and the palm side of Chris’s hand, lets Chris push his cock into his throat over and over with relentlessly willing pleasure. His own cock has been so long ignored he’s starting to get used to the heavy, hot feeling of it.

Chris is not relenting, Charlie thinks excitedly, as he tries to breathe in through his mouth but only succeeds in blowing a bubble through the mess he’s made on Chris’s dick. Chris is driving in deep and not stopping, the heaviness of his breath increasing; it realty feels like he isn’t going to stop and that means, after so long (Charlie moans again at the thought) he’s going to get Chris shooting a long load right down his throat, all for him to swallow down.

He can feel Chris getting close – he can tell that much, by now – and twists his hands against his own thighs, hums in pleasure as he waits to take it all.

All at once, Charlie hears Chris’s triumphant, affected gasp as Chris gets a hand on himself, then his own whining moan of shocked disappointment over his suddenly unfilled, dumbly-gaping mouth; then Chris’s guttural pushed-out moan as he comes in long, copious spurts over Charlie’s nose and cheek, some trailing over his lips and chin. From somewhere far away, Charlie hears his own soft croaked-out noises of surprise as he gets covered like he’s nothing.

He can hear Chris breathing hard. He realises he still wants more; right in front of him, Chris’s cock is still hard even after coming, still red and flushed. It’s seeing the head wet with come that does it: Charlie sinks onto it and sucks hard to see if there’s anything more he can get at. Chris uses one hand to guide his cock deeper into Charlie’s mouth, and Charlie feels replete from Chris’s encouragement.

He knows Chris is going to have to stop him eventually, but even when Chris pulls himself out, starting to go soft, he’s kind enough to give Charlie a little more: Chris drags his thumb through the mess on one of Charlie’s cheeks and sticks it in Charlie’s mouth, which Charlie willingly sucks clean. When he gets right down to the knuckle, he looks up at Chris and Chris is looking down at him not so sternly now, rather with quite a different expression on his face.

Chris pulls out his thumb with a soft pop then, almost lazily, whacks Charlie on the still-messy cheek with a single backhand. The hit against all the come makes a soft, wet slapping sound and it excites Charlie even more, something he hadn’t thought was possible without fucking straining something. He bucks up against thin air, even knowing Chris is watching.

“I like you filthy and surprised,” Chris says thoughtfully. “But not as much as you like it, I see.”

Then Chris relaxes his fingers and offers the sharp angle of his hand to Charlie, and Charlie hears another pathetic groan come out of him as he licks between each of Chris’s large, elegant knuckles until the back of his hand is clean.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Charlie says quietly. And grins, such is the peculiarity of the situation. For a moment, Chris beams.

“You look like a stiff wind could get you off,” Chris says good-naturedly, indicating with a nod to where Charlie’s flushed, leaking dick is poking out of his underwear.

“Yeah,” Charlie says breathily; he can’t help the breathiness, he really has been on edge for too long for that, but he’s doing his best not to beg even though he feels seconds away from climbing the walls, and he knows Chris can tell. He hopes with frazzled ferocity that Chris won’t simply tell him to do up his flies and send him away.

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” Chris says, and Charlie sighs audibly with relief. He can feel the thick heat of his cock rise still further from the anticipation. “Let’s have a look at you, and then I’m going to watch you get yourself off in the shower, and then we can get you cleaned up.”

Charlie stands up to quickly comply. Once he’s naked, Chris eyes Charlie’s cock with a look of polite, mild interest.

What Charlie isn’t expecting is for Chris to lean forward from his relaxed position on the sofa and grip him hard, his cock comfortably fitting into one of Chris’s huge palms; his knees nearly give way.

Chris gives him a tight, experimental stroke. “Don’t come yet,” he says, then pulls on him again, the broad jut of his knuckles, shiny from Charlie’s spit, are tightly gripped around Charlie’s cock, but it’s fucking useless when he’s this badly turned on; Chris might as well have told Charlie to make his heart stop beating. Charlie cries out around saying _oh, shit_ as his orgasm spurts out and covers the palm of Chris’s hand.

“You can clean that off as well,” Chris says as Charlie stares back at him, mortified, dumbstruck and feeling like he's about to fall over.

Chris stands up from the sofa and pours what he can from his hand straight into Charlie’s mouth, making Charlie splutter in surprise. He presses his palm to Charlie's mouth so Charlie can lick the rest off with his tongue, then keenly watches Charlie swallow it all down. 

“I’ll remember next time that this happened,” Chris says darkly, indicating Charlie’s spent cock with an incline of his head, and Charlie sways on his feet, feeling that promise right down to his bones.

*

In between, Charlie works. Some nights, he sleeps. Some days he runs in the weak early-morning sun listening to meandering EDM through fuck-you-expensive headphones until he hits where West London turns into neat, white stucco rows of empty streets and wonders how he got to where he is.


End file.
